


The Killer You Know

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Assassinations, BAMF!Assassin!Mary, Can be read as gen, Canon Compliant, Implied Johnlock, Johnlock Roulette, Post-Season/Series 03, Realistic Birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2355221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d offered him her entire past on a platter, offered to change everything she was for him, and he stole their child from her while she lay open on an operating table. Killing him would be a pleasure. In his last moments, he would realize double crossing her, betraying her, came with a death sentence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning and the End

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt I accidentally gave myself in a tumblr post: http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/post/95183662928
> 
> I wrote:  
> "I know that my problem with Mary is that she betrayed John, as a spouse. I intensely dislike disloyal spouses. However, I think she’d make a fascinating villain if she and John divorced, and then she had to and/or chose to come after them. Can you imagine how harrowing it could be, knowing the assassin coming after you knows all your ins and outs, your likes, your habits, your regular locales?"
> 
> So then I wrote a fic.

Annie’s eye widened as they approached the prison, and she snuggled into her father. He stroked her upper arm and hugged her close. Before the prison came into view, she’d rambled on about school and books, telling made up stories about children in her class, overall impossibly energetic, but the sight of the drab building subdued her quickly. She stuck her hand towards Sherlock, who took it and squeezed his reassurance.

John visibly grew more tense when Mycroft’s loaned black car came to a stop. He appreciated the meddling here; Annie would be given special accommodations to see Mary without being put on display for the other inmates as she would in a common meeting area. He and Annie slid out from the car, Sherlock remaining behind, mobile up, as though channeling Mycroft’s assistant.

John squatted down to look his daughter in eye. “Are you ready to see your mummy?”

She itched at the gingham dress her daddy had asked her to wear, convincing her that her mummy had sent it, and would be ever so pleased to see Annie wear it. “Yes. I want to see mummy. I wish she didn’t live here though.”

John ran a hand through her soft, lazy blonde curls, “I know, sweetie. Me, too.”

The guard approached and checked John’s identification, and led them into the building. After three left turns and right, the guard opened a heavy metal door. Mary sat at a table in a grey cinderblock room, hands cuffed with a long chain, in a khaki jumpsuit. Her hair stayed short, as John remembered it, and she’d obviously found make up for the special occasion, though the colors didn’t quite flatter her. She beamed at the sight of her daughter.

“Maddy, darling!” Mary held her hands out the best she could with her restraints. Annie held back, stuck to her father.

John bent down, “Annie, it’s your mummy. Would you like to hug her?”

Annie nuzzled her face into his side and muttered, “No.”

John looked up at Mary with a sad smile, “Give her time.”

Mary’s face fell briefly, but she contained herself quickly, “Maddy, come sit. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you today.”

John walked over to the chairs across the table from where Mary sat, and Annie climbed into John’s lap after he sat down. She spoke, “Mummy, my name is Annie. Stop being silly.”

“I know, sweetheart. Do you remember that Mummy wanted to name you Matilda, but Daddy wouldn’t let her?”

“Daddy and Papa Sherlock picked out my name.”

Mary’s face darkened for a moment, then recovered. “They did. It’s a lovely name. I thought Matilda was a lovely name too. Matilda was a very clever girl in a book I read when I wasn’t much older than you. I thought she was an amazing little girl. I think you’re a clever and amazing little girl, too.”

Annie smiled.

Mary’s demeanor melted at the approval of her daughter. John could tell how much she missed her. Mary prompted, “Your daddy sent me pictures of your first day of school. Do you like it?”

Annie sat up proudly. “I like school. I’m in the snowflake reading group. I get the best books. And Tommy is in my group and he’s my friend. But Lauri is in my group, too, and she bit me. Ms. Polaski made her draw a picture ‘bout her bad choice. I had a bad choice, too. I called Clarence an arsehole-“

“Annie!” John exclaimed, “What did I say about that word?”

“That’s a Daddy word, not an Annie word,” Annie replied in a sing song repetition. Mary hid a smile. Annie continued to regal Mary with stories of school and home, they read from a story book John brought, played silly word games and Mary’s eyes sparkled. At Annie’s request, Mary attempted to tell her stories from her own life, but John saw her struggle to find clean, non-offensive prison tales.

A guard came by after their allotted four hours to give then a five minute warning. Mary sighed, “I’m going to miss you, my love.”

Annie walked around the table to Mary and offered her arms up for a hug. Mary picked her up and held her tight, tears beginning to stream down her face. Annie pulled back when she felt the wetness on her cheek. “Mummy, don’t be sad. Daddy promised I get to come back every year.”

As they prepared to leave, Mary pulled John aside.

“Thank you, for bringing her; for the letters and pictures. I appreciate it, I do,” she started, then a hardness settled over her features. “But I’ll still never forgive you for taking her away from me.”

John stared her down in firm determination.

“I don’t need you to.”

-o—o—o-

John, in his naivety, still worked at the same clinic at which he met Mary. She scoffed. Killing him would be simple. She breathed cool, steel determination as she tracked his figure on the security cameras. She knew Big Brother’s eyes and ears surrounded Baker St, but she still knew contacts who could get her into the CCTV without his knowledge. She watched, daily, for his return to work, all the while getting her affairs in order.

Another identity change, using another dead child’s name, this one from America. Now she went by Debbie Wright, a bustier dark brunette with brown eyes. A few lifts tucked into her bra changed her curves, and a little well placed makeup appeared to change the shape of her eyes, nose and lips. She’d laughed when trained, at how women could shed identities so much more efficiently than their male counterparts with nothing more than a little rouge and liner. Early in career, one of her alter identities trained as a cosmologist; it was the best professional development she’d ever pursued.

Debbie Wright accessed the accounts she’d left to accrue interest while being Mary Morstan, and allowed her funds to purchase replacements for the weapons and tools she’d offered to John Watson as a sacrifice to their life together. She bristled. She’d offered him her entire past on a platter, offered to change everything she was for him, and he stole their child from her while she lay open on an operating table. Killing him would be a pleasure. In his last moments, he would realize double crossing _her_ , betraying _her_ , came with a death sentence.

An unnoticed break in to the clinic revealed the paperwork filed for his paternity leave; twelve weeks from the day of the birth before he’d return to part time hours. The same hours he’d held before Sherlock’s jump, when she’d been tasked with reconnaissance on John. When they courted, John seemed surprised sometimes at how well Mary knew him, he hadn’t known at the time, though she was sure he knew now, that she’d spent the better part of two years watching his every move. From the moment he shot Jefferson Hope, she learned the minute details of his life, the boring routines he attempted to cling to despite the cyclone of Sherlock’s mania. She grew rather fond of him over time, to the point of being mildly unsettled when her laser sight joined Moran’s on John’s chest during the great confrontation at the pool.

She waited and watched for another month after John began working again. His hours remained as irregular as ever, but she noticed a pattern for the cases on which he willingly accompanied Sherlock. Fewer Met cases, more personal clients; it seemed he was limiting his personal risk in response to his responsibility as a father. Surprisingly, Sherlock’s behaviors, or what she saw of them as she watched John, also erred on the side of caution. No more chasing criminals without back up, or at least without informing the detective inspector.

She knew a well-placed, well designed crime could ensure Sherlock didn’t need John, therefore ensuring John’s presence at the clinic on a given day. Once at the clinic, his habits were the same as they had been when she acted as his nurse. She knew his movements, his procedures, and all of it led to a simple execution.

Mary moved on a blustery summer Tuesday. A minor museum heist the previous evening served to distract Sherlock, place John at the clinic, and line her pockets with further funds to care for her and Maddy. She wore her old scrubs to blend better in the clinic environment, though she wasn’t planning on being seen.

She waited to enter the building until 8:25. His nurse should have prepared his exam room, and left it to organize the files of patients already waiting for the day’s acute clinic. She slipped into the exam room, and concealed herself behind the door. At 8:30, with military precision, John entered the building. As typical, he greeted the receptionist and walked to the staff room. He hung up his coat and made himself a cup of coffee. At 8:38, like clockwork, he entered his exam room. His desk faced away from the door, his back to Mary. A deliberate practice, he once explained to her. When someone entered his exam room, his body blocked any sight of protected health information, giving that extra layer of patient privacy that he felt other care providers lacked.

It also allowed her to emerge from behind the door, quietly shutting it as she went, without his notice. As she brought her gun up, her eyes caught, for a split second, a new photo of four month old Maddy on the desk. As the warmth of love for her daughter bloomed in her chest, in the briefest of pauses, John’s reflection in the glass locked on to hers. His reaction was immediate. He twisted and flung himself out of the chair, and tackled her. She felt the soldier attack, and attempted to swing the butt of her weapon into his temple, but lost purchase as she fell. He straddled her and held her down with a hand firmly, but not painfully wrapped around her throat, and leaned forward to grab her gun. He held it inches from her head as he kneeled back, then slowly withdrew both his body and the weapon from her reach, while keeping her in its sights.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and with a press of a button, dialed out, never lowering his arm. “Mycroft?” John spoke into the phone. She sat up, testing his resolve. _How far would he let her move?_ As she moved, he adjusted his aim. “Mary’s here in my office. My assassin ex-wife just tried to fucking execute me.”

Mary pressed her luck further and began to stand. She kept her face stoic, but smirked internally. He wasn’t going to shoot her. She may have tried to kill him, but she was currently unarmed, and his training, _his morals_ , wouldn’t let him fire on her so long as she didn’t attempt to attack him again.

“Good.” John replied to whatever Mycroft said.

She moved slowly, hands raised in a defensively position, and inched her way to the door. The gun followed her path.

“Hurry.” John growled into the phone.

She reached the door, and without looking back, fled.

-o-

“What do you mean, you fucking lost her?!” John shouted, the noise echoing loudly in Mycroft’s office. Sherlock glared daggers, while Mycroft held his firm, emotionless façade. Annie stirred, but settled back to sleep.

“Regrettable thought it may be, Dr Watson, we do not have a security detail on your person at all times. Thus, by the time my team arrived, Mary had escaped, eluding the CCTV cameras. You can hardly expect for me to apprehend a criminal in less than forty seconds. I am not all seeing, nor all knowing, despite what my brother would have you believe.”

“Did you… did you – did you just blame _me_ for your massive cock up?” John laughed indignantly, turning in disgust. “Christ, you Holmes brothers are alike.”

Sherlock switched his glare from Mycroft to John, “Don’t compare me-”

John ignored him. “So let’s talk about Annie, then,” John’s voice grew quieter, but still agitated, as he gestured to the still-sleeping infant in Sherlock’s arms. He sat in his chair, and gently brushed her cheek.

“What would you like?” Mycroft asked, his voice less hard and more curious.

“I want her safe. I don’t want Mary to get to her. And I think, as much as I don’t want it, that she might be safest away from Baker St.”

“Your sister?”

“No, Mary knows where Harry lives. And her weaknesses.”

Sherlock interrupted. “Mycroft, don’t be tedious. You have a plan, just tell him.”

John stared at Mycroft, “For fuck’s sake.”

“Apologies. It is my understanding that most people prefer to arrive at decisions on their own, lest they feel unduly compelled.”

“You do remember I live with your brother, right?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft conceded. “I recommend Annie stay with Mrs. Bandi, Sherlock’s former nanny, at my summer home. It is almost impenetrable, its location only known to Sherlock, Anthea, Mrs. Bandi and myself, and a nursery has already been prepared.”

John looked to Sherlock for his opinion. Sherlock nodded.

“Um. Okay.” John muttered while working his mind around the option. “We’ll need-“

“Everything you might need is already at the house, including a replica of that giant neuron she sleeps with.”

“Ronnie, right.” John scoured his mind for everything and anything Annie might need. “How will I see her?”

“We’ll arrange for random pick-ups. Varying locations, varying times, varying vehicles. Will three times a week suffice until Mary is captured?”

“So long as you get her soon.”

“I assure you, we will be as expedient as possible.”


	2. Of Suspicions and Snipers

“Christ, Sherlock! What am I supposed to do with this?!” John gripped the flash drive as though he wished to strangle it. Sherlock looked up from his chair at John, who stood at the foot of his stairs. _Bags under eyes especially dark, burst into room with agitation, still in last night’s clothing, wrinkled. Conclusion: John still hasn’t slept, though he’s tried._

It had been three days since Sherlock came back home from his second hospital stay, and John still prowled the living room like an injured bear, hurt and painfully vicious. Force and fury erupted daily, almost predictably so, like the geyser in America. Old Faithful, they call her, and John is nothing if not faithful.

“I can’t forgive her. Jesus, I loved her. Or whoever the hell she was pretending to be.” John paced the floor in front of the sofa, then turned suddenly to point accusingly at Sherlock and snarled,. “And don’t you dare blame me for her fucking lies again. This is _not_ my fault.” He turned his back to Sherlock, muttering to himself, “I can’t fucking believe he told me it was _my_ fucking fault.”

Sherlock kept silent. John’s ranting repeated itself frequently over several days, but after a few aborted attempts at rational conversation, Sherlock learned that John didn’t want a conversation, but a vessel at which to shout abuse. While not the subject of John’s ire, he was certainly the outlet. He’d tried though, hadn’t he? To make it right for John? To give him the excuses he might need to forgive and love Mary? He gave it all to John, to let him make the choice. But John came back. To 221B, to him. Sherlock desperately craved for him to stay. So he remained silent, allowing the vitriol. If he could die for John, he could do this for him too. John bore so much in these last three years. It pained Sherlock to consider his role in John’s grief, leading him to Mary. _If he’d never died,_ his thoughts began, before he cut himself off. This devastation was still infinitely more acceptable than the loss of John himself.

“I haven’t looked. I can’t. I just…” John paused, stopped stalking, and dropped into his chair. His face softened, warping from rage to anxiety. “I’m not an idiot, you know. An assassin with a pretty face just happens to become a nurse, just happens to walk into the clinic of the late-Sherlock Holmes’ best friend and take up with him?” He tapped the flash drive nervously on the arm of the chair, and quoted, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world.”

John chuckled dejectedly, “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy.” Sherlock muttered softly.

John’s head snapped up, “So you knew?! You knew what she was?”

“What? John, no. Don’t be absurd. I’m only applauding your reasoning. You’ve clearly thought this out.” Sherlock placated, silently cursing himself for speaking aloud.

John’s body visibly relaxed. “Yeah, well. It’s hardly rocket science, now isn’t it? She became Mary five years ago. Right around the time you and I met, give or take a six months.” Realization dawned on him, “Right around the first time you heard the name ‘Moriarty’. Fuck!” He threw the flash drive across the room as though it burned hot. He clenched his left fist in a repeated fashion, similar the tremor he had coming home from Afghanistan, but this incarnation stemmed from the confrontation at the pool, the knowledge of Moriarty’s role in Sherlock’s death, from the trepidation of the villain to whom he’d fallen victim.

Sherlock inwardly relaxed, grateful John made the connection. He wondered how long it would take. He couldn’t confirm Mary’s association with the late psychopath, but the possibility loomed over him, smothering like wet hot heat. Better John to think of it himself than for Sherlock to explain it. To suggest the woman John called his wife engaged in this level of deception would only further the days of angst and outburst, of pain and hate. John, irrational creature that he was, would suspect Sherlock of hiding Mary’s connection to Moriarty if he hadn’t thought of it himself. As it stood, John’s agitation filled the flat with a static interference that began to disrupt Sherlock’s own mindset. He stood and swept his violin into his arms. He positioned the instrument on his shoulder and started a soft, delicate tune.

John huffed a small, barely there smile. The static receded slowly, fading gently with the lull of sweet harmony.

They stayed like that, playing and listening, for an hour.

-o-

John pushed himself up from the chair, Sherlock’s performance weighing him down like a deep massage. He stumbled to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Sherlock’s melody followed him in and he felt clear headed just for a moment, like the weight of a thousand bad choices wasn’t dragging him through the river Stix. The ritual of tea soothed him further; setting out the cups, selecting a comforting loose leaf from the cupboard, steeping the tea, dipping the ball, one, twice, thrice. Waiting for the perfect concentration of darkness to taint the clarity of the water. He’d reached the end of what he could untangle on his own; it was time to talk it out.

He took the two cups and offered one to Sherlock, who set down the violin and dipped his head in silent thanks. He took his back to his chair, and sat, leaning forward, elbows on knees, fingers intertwined. “I, uh… it’s, well.” John stuttered, then cleared his throat. “I’d like your thoughts on the matter.”

Sherlock sipped his tea. “I think perhaps, you should start, and I’ll interject as necessary.”

John took a deep breath, and leaned back into the chair. “I want to divorce her. I want her arrested. I’m assuming the drive,“ John motioned in the direction of the hastily discarded flash drive in front of the fireplace, “will take care of the evidence for me. I want my child. I can’t have my child being raised by that woman. But I worry that the baby will suffer if Mary goes to jail still pregnant. So what do I do?”

“Have her arrested after the birth, then.”

“If I leave her, I very much doubt she’d stick around. She’d disappear into the wind, baby included. I don’t want that.”

“Then don’t leave her.”

“I have to.”

“Don’t leave her, _yet_.”

“Fake it until the birth? Fuck,” John rubbed his hand over his face, “do you know how hard it would be to fake it for next twenty nine weeks?”

“You wouldn’t have to deceive her the entire time. It would expected you need some time to forgive her. Stay here for a while, play the role of angry husband, trying to forgive the betrayal of his wife. Then in a few month’s time, then you will have to feign forgiveness.”

John nodded his head and emptied the cup to fill the silence with motion. The silence stretched on a few moments longer. “Yeah, that could… That might work. Maybe. I don’t know. How do I pretend? To act out love, twenty four hours a day?”

He flung the cup against the wall, suddenly and vicious, and snarled “Fuck!” Immediately reticent, he followed with a softer, but prominent, growl, ”Sorry. Damn it. I think about Mary, about my bloody, fucking wife, and all I can see is her shooting you. Over and over again. God knows she’s not fucking out of the business either. You don’t keep loads of stealth, tactical gear if you’re out. A gun, perhaps,” he flung his arm in the direction of his own weapon, safe in his room, “but not what she’s got.”

He took a few deep breaths. “Who knows what else she’s doing. How the fuck can I pretend that’s not all there?” flicking his fingers in the direction of the drive.

“You cannot read the files she gave you.” Sherlock expended few words, limiting their potential for damage.

“No, I probably shouldn’t. I’ll have to maintain some plausible deniability.” John bent down to pick up the discarded object, the guilt of it heavy in his hands. He stared at it, amazed that something so small could destroy him so completely. He reached it out to Sherlock, who plucked it from his fingers. “You and Mycroft, though, will you take care of everything when the time comes?”

“We’d be delighted.”

-o—o—o-

 _The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege_.

-o—o—o-

Despite the appearance of randomness to John’s day, there were easy pivot points around which she could work. Clinic day, yes or no? If yes, did he leave the clinic early? Yes – he was on his way to a crime scene; no – he’d head back to Baker St. Not at the clinic? Then it was a matter of which came first – the fight or the phone call. Because they either got swept up in a case, or they picked at each other until John stormed out.

Today, Mary found herself stationed high up in an empty luxury condo on the route a cab would take between Baker St and the Met. After solving a case yesterday (a young man had saved snow in his freezer for months, just to pack it down his step mother’s throat when she tried to beat his sister again; the evidence had melted and NSY had been stumped), she knew the boys would be coming by for a statement. She’d managed a bug behind the knocker of their front door; it was just a manner of waiting until they left and she’d set up the shot.

A sniper rifle wasn’t her weapon of choice; that was the gun she’d used to shot that damned posh fuck her husband chose over her. She still chastised herself for that shot. Her hand was steady until he’d said Mrs. Watson, in that deep, all knowing voice. He reminded her of John, of their life, of what she was trying to build, and she could see all of it dissipate in her mind’s eye. It was meant to be a kill shot, and though he’d died on the table, he clearly hadn’t died well enough. Contrary bastard to the last.

She’d borrowed the weapon from Moran a time ago, before he’d been eliminated by the same contrary bastard she currently cursed. She remembered how Moran taught her to use it, the late nights in hot, humid jungles, shooting wild animals from treetops. He’d shot a tiger, pouncing a wild boar, from 1800 meters, in a damp Indian forest. He’d been so high on the victory that they ceased shooting for the night, got drunk and fucked in a canvas tent suspended from the trees. He fucked viciously, roughly, and so unlike her considerate John Watson in every way. Sometimes she found herself missing the unintentional violence of an adrenaline fueled fuck.

But that was before John, before Mary, even. Moran had know her as Grace, back when she chose her aliases with a hint of irony, fully expecting to abandon them again. She’d hoped never to abandon Mary. And yet, here she was, working to capture the last bits of Mary, as to fully surrender herself to Debbie the Busty Brunette.

Her radio crackled in static delight, and she heard clips of words she’d been waiting for, _Lestrade, Yard, Statement, Barts,_ the latter a promise for good works completed. She positioned herself behind the weapon, loaded and aimed as precisely as she could. Tobin, a council rep she’d blackmailed, had set up traffic cones to bottleneck traffic into one lane.

She lamented the necessity of this plan. A direct shot was her favorite, but as in all matters John Watson, she’d failed in that method. Like a good surgeon, no decent assassin tried the same unsuccessful procedure again and again. But, she pondered thoughtfully, if she failed again (1 in 20, she guessed the odds), sniper shots in the heart of London would be sure to trigger at least a partial PTSD episode. That shoulder might act up, the limp might return, the nightmares would definitely worsen, he’d sleep poorly, and her next attempt would be easier.

-o-

John all but pushed Sherlock out the door. “I know you hate it, but it has to be done. Lestrade can’t guess at your deductive process, you have to fill it in for him. And, yes, at the Yard.” John stopped Sherlock’s protests before they even began. “I’m sick of this conversation, Sherlock. You have to give your statement after every case. You know this. And you also know, that if you do, I’ll concede on another body part in the fridge. I’ve already called Molly; she’s got an appendiceal tumor waiting at Bart’s for you.”

Sherlock’s scowl transformed instantly, “An appendiceal carcinoma? Quite rare. Delightful!” Sherlock robotically held the cab door open for John, as his mind wandered the experiments he could perform on the unusual cancer.

-o-

Mary saw the cab approach the bottleneck. The traffic jam would ensure she got a clear shot. She waited tense and anxiously for the cab to inch its way into her vision. She squinted and peered through the scope, John’s head clear in the crosshairs.

-o-

John’s phone chimed simultaneously with Sherlock’s. They both read, <Exit cab immediately. Sniper threat imminent. MH>

-o-

She breathed in, keeping an eye on the golden grey hair, ready to obliterate a man she once loved, and pulled the trigger on the exhale. As she did so, she saw the cab doors open, and two bodies roll out. The bullet tore through the glass window, through the empty space where John’s head was moments prior, through the driver’s seat, and into the cabbie, who slumped over and caused the cab to jolt into the vehicle in front.

Screams and sirens wailed through the air. Now we’ve both killed cabbies, Mary thought abysmally, before cursing her bad luck and breaking down her weapon. She wasn’t sure how she’d been found out this time, (she suspected Big Brother), but more careful planning was definitely necessary. She tucked the gun away into an overgrown shopping bag, swapped the indistinct bland clothes for a breezy peasant skirt with matching top and a large, floppy hat. In moments, she looked like a socialite shopper. She descended in the elevator, exited the luxury condos with a flirtatious wave to the doorman and disappeared into the crowd.


	3. Anticipation

John wrung his fingers and hovered over Mary. His time in the farce was coming to an end, but he hid his excitement behind the genuine anxiety of the baby’s pending arrival. Mary’s contractions came every six minutes or so, and despite her discomfort, and the fact the contractions started twelve hours ago, it still wasn’t time to go to the hospital yet. Her obstetrician gave clear instructions to come in either when her bag of waters broke, or the time between contractions decreased to five minutes apart. Mary handled the contractions efficiently, with deep breaths. Occasionally, an especially strong contraction would elicit a throaty moan. She’d spent the first four hours walking circles around their flat, but now she kneeled backwards on their sofa, sagging into its comfort when her body rested, and rocking through the pain as the muscle worked to open her cervix.

John brought her water and a peanut butter banana smoothie to refuel for the long road ahead. He timed the contractions; he’d had Sherlock download an app and show him how to use it. He offered comforting touches, pushing hard on the small of her back to provide counter-pressure. When her body released its tension, he rubbed her shoulders. For the first time in months, he found he could touch her without stifling his disgust at her lies.

As twelve hours turned into fifteen, then eighteen, during which the contractions paradoxically grew more distant, to eight minutes, instead of more frequent, John implored her to call her midwife.

“Damn it, John. I can do this!”

He helped her into a warm bath and she smiled wearily. The contractions still came hard, but the heat of the water soothed her aching muscles, the significant cramping of her uterus. She floated, belly down, brushing against the warmed enamel, arms stretched over a bath pillow on the edge of the claw foot tub, while John sat in a chair nearby. He offered her sips of water, nibbles of cashews and other high protein items to stave off hunger without filling her stomach. He’d seen too many women throw up during labor from hunger or from overeating during his obstetric rotation in medical school. Small, energizing bites were crucial. He kept up the water’s temperature, and poured cups of warm water down her back as she rode out wave after wave.

By the twenty four hour mark, they were both exhausted. Neither had slept, and John was concerned that Mary’s exhaustion would only further inhibit her progress. She finally acquiesced to his pleas, and he called the midwife, Jamie. At her instruction, John called a cab to take them to hospital. He readied their overnight bag, helped Mary into her clothes, and helped her to the cab when it arrived.

He held her as she rocked through the contractions on the way, stronger than they had been in the warmth of the bath, and harder to suffer through without the ability to contort her body the way she wished. He rubbed her back as she doubled at the reception desk, attempting to sign the necessary consents before being admitted back to triage.

The nurse flitted around after getting Mary to a bed, checking blood pressure, temperature, and attaching the tocometer with an elastic belly band to measure the strength of the contractions and the fetal heart monitor. John breathed a sigh of relief at hearing the strong, steady heartbeat. His stomach fluttered in anticipation, the baby was nearly here. All this work, this deception, for the tiny life he’d help create.

John nudged up by Mary’s head when Jamie came in and asked to check her dilation. Mary grimaced as the midwife pushed her fingers deep to find the opening of the cervix. “Five centimeters.” Jamie announced flatly.

“Oh, hell.” Mary breathed out with deflated resignation. John detailed the last day and a half for Jamie, as Mary’s ability to determine the passage of time had been shot eighteen hours ago. Jamie nodded as she listened.

“I think, Mrs. Watson-“

“Mary.”

“I think, Mary, that you need some rest. Would you be interested in an epidural at this stage?”

“Will it let me sleep?”

“Most likely. About two percent of patients will still feel pain to some degree, but for the overwhelming majority, the pain recedes entirely. As long as you can sleep with the monitors on, you should be fine.”

“I want that.” Mary pointed her finger in emphasis.

“Okay. I’d also like to break your water. The baby’s head is engaged, so there’s little risk, and it will increase the likelihood of getting you into active labor.”

“Active labor?” Mary demanded with frustration, “What the hell have I been doing until now?”

“By definition, active labor requires progress.”

Mary looked to snap back at her, but her body tensed painfully with another contraction. Mary breathed out guttural noises, John rubbed her thigh since he couldn’t reach her back, and Jamie gathered her supplies. John and Jamie stayed silent until the tension seeped from Mary’s body.

Jamie obtained Mary’s consent to perform the simple procedure. With gloves on, she held up a long thin utensil that resembled a knitting needle with a small notch built into the side. She explained the use of the amnihook, and spoke softly to Mary, detailing each step and touch as the narrow instrument was used to break her waters. Jamie retreated and warned, “The contractions will be stronger now, but we’re hoping they’ll be more effective. I’ll let the anesthesiologist know you’d like an epidural. His name is Dr. Woodhouse, and he’ll be here in the next half hour to set you up. Can you make it another thirty minutes?”

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Mary laughed with a hint of desperation.

As soon as Jamie left, John helped Mary climb out of the bed without disrupting her monitors. He manipulated the hospital bed to a more suitable position for her. The back of the bed stood at almost a right angle to the seat, while the foot lowered to give the bed the appearance of a padded birthing chair, a feature unique to labor and delivery hospital beds. He helped her climb back on, and she knelt, arms over the back, like she had on their couch at home. For the next half hour, they worked through the strengthening contractions together, John soothing and comforting, while she kept her moans deep and low like they’d practiced in her birth class.

Dr Woodhouse arrived and waited until Mary’s last contraction was finished before speaking. He asked her pertinent questions about her weight, family history, and reactions to previous anesthesia.

“I had a sudden drop of blood pressure when getting an endovascular stent that was due to the general.”

“We’ll be prepared then.”

The bed was manipulated back to normal and raised high enough for Dr Woodhouse to work, and he stood behind Mary. John stood in front of her and she draped herself over him, arms around his neck. He thought on her statement to the doctor; endovascular stent, with general anesthesia. Thoracic, then, and knowing what little he did about her background, probably from penetrating trauma. Gunshot? Knife wound? How did he not know? He guessed a little plastic surgery to compliment a brand new identity wasn’t much. It highlighted how ready he was to end this charade. To see his child, and leave this woman who lied, and kept lying.

“You’ll need to stay completely still. I’m administering a local anesthetic first. You’ll feel a slight prick and then I’ll do the epidural.”

John held still to keep Mary still. She roared in his ear as a contraction came, the pain magnified by the complete inability to move. “Oh fuck,” she swore breathlessly, as the pain ebbed, “That was the worst one yet.”

Soon, Woodhouse had finished and together, they laid Mary back on the bed. Briefly, her blood pressure dropped, causing her to almost pass out, but the quickly administered drug counteracted the effects and she revived nicely. She felt the foreign sensation of her legs not quite belonging to her anymore. She dimmed the lights from the controller near the bed, and laid her head back to rest.

John made himself as comfortable as possible on the couch. Just before Mary fell into sleep, he heard her whisper, “I’m so glad you stayed, John.”

He’d spent the last four months living with her, attending to her and their child, but he still couldn’t forgive her. He couldn’t forgive her when Sherlock was arrested for protecting John’s child, and by extension, Mary. He couldn’t forgive her when he had to say good-bye to his best friend, when he thought Sherlock might never come back. Sherlock, who cared so deeply as to sacrifice himself for the little person John loved, but had never met. He couldn’t forgive her as Sherlock chased down lead after lead when Moriarty’s face appeared. He couldn’t run with Sherlock, if Mary was in league with Moriarty or his organization, none of them would be safe. He couldn’t forgive her when Sherlock withstood another bullet, a bullet whose path John could have prevented.

He felt no remorse as he texted Sherlock and Mycroft, <She’s still in labor. Is everything in place?>. Once sent, he deleted the message, just in case. He never would trust Mary.

<Congratulations, John. Everyone is ready for Baby Watson to arrive. MH>

John closed his eyes, at peace, and slept.

 

-o—o—o-

 

John jolted awake, eyes wide in confusion, and hit the floor, hiding from the enemy echoing in his ears. He reached for his weapon, but found it missing, and barked out the name of the only man he’d trust to protect him.

“Murray!”

He heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. _Fuck,_ John thought _, he shouldn’t have screamed,_ but he was disorientated _._ He looked around, for protection. He didn’t know how he’d gotten to this top floor without a weapon, and he didn’t where he was, but he knew that he had to hide until he knew whoever would be coming through the door was one of his own.

A man burst in, with dark hair and a pale linen shirt and slacks. Not fatigues. An enemy, then. John readied himself to attack from behind the closet door.

“John!” The man spoke with urgency, in a deep, crisp perfectly posh British accent. The man knew his name. Familiar. “John, you’re safe. It’s London, John” The man twirled, seeking for John’s form in the darkened room.

_John_. The man knew his name. And _London_ , and the world shifted slowly in front of John’s eyes. The man didn’t wear a thawb, but pajamas and dressing gown. The room was decidedly English, not Afghani. And the man, _Sherlock_.

_Oh, fuck. He was in London._

John let out an involuntary sob, and let Sherlock lead him down the stairs.

-o-

John accepted the tea Sherlock offered, and waited for him to sit on the other end other couch and tuck his feet under John’s thigh. John understood it was their version of comfort. Sherlock, who seemed allergic to sentiment, and John, who despised the weakness of his mind and didn’t want to be coddled. So this, a simple touch to keep them grounded, this was how they coped.

John breathed in and out slowly as he sipped the tea. Regardless, his voice shook when he spoke. “She’s going to kill me.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Doubtful.”

“You don’t understand. I lived with her for two full years. We worked together. We were married. She knows me. Intimately. Knows my habits, my fears. The sniper rifle wasn’t an accident. She knew, if she missed, it’d trigger these episodes. I’m exhausted. Not on guard. I’ll make a mistake.”

A thoughtful expression settled over Sherlock’s features, “You believe her profound understanding of you as a person will outweigh the security precautions of the best Britain has to offer.”

John huffed out a dead, dry, laugh. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I can’t escape her.”

“I appreciate that your agitated PTSD has altered your paranoia, but I assure you, Mycroft can provide security fit for the Queen. And has, in fact.”

“You saying nice things about your brother isn’t helping to reassure me.”

“I’m not sure how to reassure you, other than attempting to force you into seeing reason, logic and facts.”

“Can we get Annie safe? I know she’s at Mycroft’s with your nanny, but is there anything safer? Better? I can’t let Mary get to her. I’ll forgo visits, just see her on video chat, whatever it takes.”

“I’m positive that can be arranged.” Sherlock reached for his phone and started texting.

“What happens to her when I’m dead?” John asked, the forgone conclusion already cemented in his mind as fact.

“There is no need for a contingency plan for Mary executing you.”

John threw his teacup on the ground with violent force, “Damnit Sherlock!”

Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly, then sighed bitterly. “Fine. We can plan. But we will do it tomorrow. You are agitated, paranoid, and tired, and therefore more of an idiot than usual.”

John let the slight pass without comment, and stood to fetch the broom.

 


	4. Delivery and Arrival

The nurse shook John awake. He cursed, silently damning her for waking him just moments after he’d closed his eyes. He sat up, saw the night sky in the window, and Mary looking at him. He blinked and checked his phone. Four hours had passed.

“Christ,” he murmured, and rubbed his eyes. “It only felt like minutes.” He looked to Mary, “How do you feel?”

“I slept some, but they woke me. Baby’s heart rate isn’t as reassuring as they’d like,” Mary said, waving at the monitors. John shot up to his feet. “No, it’s fine. Not dangerous, just risky. They’ve recommended, and I’ve decided on, a c-section.”

“Oh. How are you feeling about that?” John knew she hoped to avoid surgery.

“I need this baby out. I don’t care anymore.” It had been thirty hours since her first contraction.

He and Mary dressed in their respective outfits; her a gown and cap, for him a jumpsuit and cap. The nurse unhooked the antibiotics they’d been running since Mary consented, increased the level of her epidural, and passed her a small cup of liquid.

“You’ll want to take it like a shot, love,” the nurse recommended, “It reduces stomach acid in the unlikely event you vomit and then inhale it, but it’s quite unpleasant going down.”

Mary’s face contorted in disgust as the solution hit her tongue. She shuddered and paled, and John recognized the look as the one she made early in the pregnancy as she attempted to keep her stomach from revolting. “Unpleasant? My god, that’s repellent.”

The nurse and a transporter rolled her bed into the OR while John waited in the hall. In the room, the staff indentified themselves, a pediatric nurse, a surgical nurse, a physician, a resident physician, Dr Woodhouse, his nurse anesthetist, and Jamie, who stood by her head and held her hand, once they had transferred her to the operating table. A blue curtain was drawn across perpendicular to her chest, blocking her vision, which was already restricted by lying supine. Her arms were out like a cross, a blood pressure cuff around her bicep and pulse ox on her finger. Dr Woodhouse ran a cube of ice up her torso until she can feel its wetness, pinched her thigh hard (which she barely felt), and confirmed the anesthetic is ready. The staff took its place and Mary smelled the smoking corn chip scent of burning flesh as they cauterized the first incision. Once they determined she felt nothing, Jamie went and fetched John.

John walked into the operating room with a nostalgia that burned. He missed surgery, his old livelihood, like a missing limb. He spent as much time holding Mary’s hand and talking to her as he did looking over the curtain and mentally critiquing the way the obstetricians held their tools.

“Oh, my,” Mary exclaimed, astonished, as John watched his child be pulled from her womb, covered in creamy, thick vernix, “I can feel that. I can feel the baby being removed. Oh wow.”

Soft, bird-like cries erupted into the room. “It’s definitely a girl!” John shouted, elated. His little girl was here. All that he had worked towards, all that he had suffered was naught at this instant, where his little girl jutted out her legs, and screamed. Mary cried, the sound combining with her hormones to overwhelm her system. The tears poured, and she choked out, “I can’t believe she’s here. She’s finally here. Our Matilda.” John left her side to follow his baby to where the pediatric nurse started wiping her off. After putting a hat on her tiny little head, sparse with soft blonde hairs, matted by vernix, and swaddling her tightly in a warmed blanket, she passed her off to John, laying her gently in his arms. He held her, this tiny miracle, all 3500 grams of her, and stared at her eyes, narrowly adjusting to a bright new world. He walked over to Mary, the tears still running down her face, and placed the baby on her chest, his hand keeping her in place, so that Mary can gaze into her face.

“Oh,” she sighed lovingly, “She’s so lovely. She looks just like you.” John nodded, throat constricted. Could he do this? Could he take their child from her? He berated himself as he looked upon Mary’s face; the love and adoration he saw there, for their child. She may have lied to him, betrayed him, but she hadn’t betrayed their daughter. _Fuck_ , he thought _, I’m not sure I can do this_.

-o-

The nurse walked John to the recovery room to wait while Mary was stitched back together. He removed his jumpsuit, his shirt, and laid the baby on his chest, her bare skin against his. The nurse draped a heated, heavy blanket over the two of them, and he marveled at her perfect features. It didn’t matter that he was a doctor, it didn’t matter that the process of reproduction occurred the world over; the sight of a tiny human, created by something as insignificant as ejaculate, boggled his mind. The door opened, and as planned, Sherlock walked in.

“God, Sherlock, she’s gorgeous.”

“I’m sure she’s lovely, but we need to move.” Sherlock answered in haste.

“I... I’m not… I don’t-“ John started to protest, faltering in his convictions.

“I thought the moment might catch up to you.” He handed John a file, “I had Mycroft print off just one assignment from the Mary’s drive, to help you make an informed decision.”

The baby was nestled safely on his chest under the blanket, so he opened the file with both hands. Clipped to the right side were a series of pictures. The first was a woman, eyes blank, skin pale, a gunshot wound expertly placed between her eyes. The rest, _Oh hell_ , the rest were _children_. Three photos, three siblings by the looks of it, the youngest being eight months, with two siblings not much older, maybe two and four. The whole family, save the father, slaughtered, precision point blank headshots. John gaped, distraught. He flipped through the details, though at this point, it didn’t matter. Her employer offered $100,000 for all four kills, all because the father had tossed a drink in his face, and the Mafioso felt disrespected. It had only taken $25,000 a piece to convince her to murder innocent children.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. We need to get out of here.”

Sherlock bit back the “Obviously” on his tongue and produced a pair of snips to remove the baby’s tracking anklet to avoid setting off alarms as they snuck off the floor. John hurried to put his shirt back on, handing the baby off to Sherlock. He looked at the infant in his arms, and John caught the soft expression on his face. Sherlock asked, “And her name?”

John buttoned his shirt and smiled, “The same as you and I picked out. She’ll be Antimony Clarisse Ella Watson.” He took back his little girl and kissed her forehead, “My Annie. Mary wanted Matilda, but I told her at Christmas I was naming the baby. She didn’t believe me.” John chuckled darkly.

Sherlock looked out the room for obvious staff, and seeing none, ushered John and Annie out the door. He guided them out the back hallways, texting all the while. John followed quickly, holding Annie tightly to his chest. Sherlock huffed and slid his phone into his pocket. “I’ve given Mycroft the name to expedite the birth certificate, your divorce is official, and Mary goes back to Morstan.” He pushed open an outside door, and led John outside, away from marriage, away from Mary, away from the lies of the last three years.

-o—o—o-

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, while John curled into the couch. He nursed a scotch, the bags under his eyes dark from exhaustion. He sipped the liquor, the warmth of the spirit coating his throat and adding to release his nerves for long enough to catch a few hours of sleep. Though, in the past two weeks, the only way John succumbed to the little sleep he found was passing out from an unhealthy combination of alprazolam and scotch, the former of which he remained unaware. Sherlock was confident John would eventually forgive being drugged, once this situation with Mary resolved itself.

John remained bitter; bitter at uncertainty of the whole debacle. He fumed at only seeing his daughter via video conference; despairing in his belief he’d never hold her again. He’d worked with Mycroft, much to Sherlock’s chagrin, to find a suitable adoptive family for Annie in the eventuality of his death. Despite both Mycroft and Sherlock’s reassurances, John operated on the assumption that any day might be his last, and the end would come at the hands of his ex-wife.

John’s melancholy infected the flat, and even Sherlock found it difficult to disassociate himself from the thickness of misery, as it seeped through every crack and settled on every surface; as eloquent as the dust but much more difficult to eradicate.

The gentle “Yoo-hoo,” of Mrs. Hudson’s voice echoed up the stairs, followed by her dainty footsteps. Sherlock ignored the noise, but John, even in his influenced state, set his drink down and stood to greet her. He wobbled, confused; two scotches shouldn’t affect him so strongly. He glared at Sherlock; he knew the detective bringing him his second drink unsolicited was dubious. He dreamily suspected he should be angry about being drugged, but couldn’t find it in himself to care all that much.

Mrs. Hudson laid a tray of sandwiches and coffee down next to where John previously sat. She knew better than to put the food in the kitchen during Sherlock’s experiments. She patted John’s cheek, “Oh dear, I know you’re not well right now. Speedy’s sent this for you. Eat something. You’ll feel better.” She remained unaware of Mary’s vendetta against him.

John closed his eyes at her touch, wondering dismally when the last time Mrs. Hudson’s mothering would be, and tried to smile in thanks. Sherlock stood over and came to the tray, “Speedy’s sent this up?”

“That was the nice man who normally works at the counter said. The pretty one, who paints his nails in such bright colors. Young men these days, so bold!” Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly at her boys, then with a soft ‘Ta,’ made her way back to 221A.

“Don’t touch it, John,” Sherlock commanded, as John took a bite of the club.

“Christ, Sherlock. Not everyone is out to kill me. Just Mary.” Regardless of his complaints, he spit out the food into his palm, then found a napkin to fold it in.

“The man she mentioned; he’s only been there two months.” Sherlock picked up a sandwich, examining it. He opened it, and spread each piece, the lettuce, meat, cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, smelling each one.”Damnit.”

“What?” John asked, tired and just a little bit drunk.

“Smell.” Sherlock ordered.

John sniffed at the half the sandwich he’d eaten. Ham, cucumbers, and the soft scent of almonds. The drugs in John’s system dampened the panic to his system, and he simply sighed, “Fuck. Cyanide, right? Well, I guess a trip to A&E is in order.”

“Already called,” Sherlock held up his phone.

“You’ll have to let them know whatever it is you drugged me with.”

Sherlock winced slightly, “Damn. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

John held his arms out, and reminded, in his most annoyed tone, “ _Doctor_.”

“Touché.”

-o-

John finally awoke to true consciousness after about eight hours. He took a long look as his surroundings. Hospital. “Fuck, what’d she do now?” he asked when he saw Sherlock sitting in the spare chair that had been pressed directly next to the bed.

Sherlock jolted in response to John’s voice. He grasped John’s hand and stood, staring into John’s eyes. “John, how’d we meet?” he demanded.

“Uh, Mike?” John responded to the non sequitur, and understood slightly when Sherlock’s whole body relaxed. “I’ve been pretty out of it, haven’t I?”

“You’ve been dizzy, delusional and confused. Mild cyanide poisoning from the sandwich.”

“I guess I owe you my life,” John smiled, then looked off to the side thoughtfully, “But it’s not the first time, I suppose.”

“John, the man at the shop was paid by Mary to add a special dressing to your sandwich. Mixed with cyanide. I’ve contacted Mycroft. The man is in custody, and we’ve gotten chatter that Mary will try to attack you tonight, while you’re here.”

“I told you she wouldn’t stop.” John just looked sad at Sherlock’s announcement. “You know, if it weren’t for the lying, and the fact that she killed kids, I could deal with it. I’ve really thought about this. I’ve killed people, you’ve killed people, I can understand the killing; there loads of not nice people in the world. But why lie about it? To me? And then the kids thing. Why would you ever kill kids?”

“I don’t know, John. Leverage, I suppose.”

“But you. You hunted down Moriarty’s entire network. Did you ever murder children to avenge the evil of their parents?”

“No. I’ve said it before; love is a powerful motivator. But only the truly cruel use the death of loved ones at motivation, in lieu of incentive. Even Moriarty knew to entice Hope with money and care for his children; he didn’t threaten to murder them.”

“Christ, Sherlock, what does that say about Mary? How did I miss her cruelty?”

“I’ve talked to Mycroft. All signs point to her attempts at retirement once I faked my death and Moriarty was dead. We believe she genuinely wanted to start over with you.”

“But how-“

“That’s the problem with a past like hers,” Sherlock interrupted, “She was never truly free from it. She, you, your child would always be at risk from the enemies of her actions. She’d hoped murdering Magnussen would be the end of it; although I’m not entirely sure what her attempted murder of me was meant to accomplish. I really would have done anything to help her.” Here Sherlock paused, then looked away and spoke softly, “To help you. You were happy then.”

“I was happy with you, Sherlock, before you jumped off a building.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself, but John cut him off, “I understand why you did it. I’m just saying. I was happy with you. If I survive this, I’m sure we can get back there.”

Sherlock smiled the half smile John recognized as the smile Sherlock reserved just for him.

John changed topics, “So, if Mycroft thinks Mary’ll attack tonight, what’s our plan?”


	5. Rejected and Accepted

The hospital was a perfect location for her next strike. As a trained nurse; her chosen profession for her new life, her disguise would be flawless. If asked to demonstrate her skills, she wouldn’t falter. In fact, she still had her hospital badge from her student practicum. She looked at herself in the mirror of the locker room and approved of the image she presented. She knew John’s room was on the 5th floor of the patient tower and knew that visitor hours ended 15 minutes ago. Knowing how difficult Sherlock could be, she’d wait another 15 minutes for the nurse on duty to extract him from John’s room.

The poison in his sandwich hadn’t quite worked as she wanted, but honestly she thought it was really the beginning of a two part plan. If it had worked, lovely, if not, then she’d planned to be here, acting nurse, waiting for John to be alone.

She held a syringe in her pocket, that was, ironically, not for her ex-husband. She knew the hospital’s coding system. By injecting a patient at the opposite end of the hall, she’d have three minutes to escape her room before the patient coded. Once the patient coded, all nurses and physicians on staff this late at night would be on hand to resuscitate her. The drug wouldn’t kill the woman; she didn’t bother killing anyone for free (unless you counted John, but the price of his death would be her child), but it would provide the needed distraction so that she could execute John in his sleep. It would also keep everyone at the other end of the hall. Combined with the silencer, it might take hours for anyone to notice John’s death.

Mary smiled one last time at the mirror. Perhaps, when she started over for the third time, Debbie could be a nurse too. She rather liked the work; it kept her busy, and it felt like repentance. It would be a decent, honest way to raise her little girl. A nurse would work.

She exited and slipped into the room farthest from John’s. She smiled at the patient, confirmed the name she’d read on the chart, and supplied a nonsense reason to inject the drug into her IV. The woman seemed nice, recovering from a sickle cell crisis, but Mary didn’t regret her actions. People were more often than not a means to an end. The woman would survive; there was nothing to feel guilty about. She waved her exit, and waited in a supply closet for the code to sound.

Sure enough, after roughly three minutes, a flurry of activity rushed through the hallways. She slinked through the halls to John’s room. She slid in, entering the darkened room without sound. She heard the gentle breathing from the bed and reached to the small of her back to retrieve her weapon. She lined up the weapon to John’s breathing; she couldn’t see more than the outline of his head, but figured three quick shots to the skull would eliminate him completely.

She pulled the trigger rapidly, thrice over, and sighed with relief. Now, it was time to fetch Maddie. As she moved her weapon back the comfortable spot behind her back, a hand lashed out and caught her wrist. She wrenched away, but her silent attacker used her own weight against her and forced her to drop her weapon, and restrained her with a zip tie faster than she could react. The aggressor incapacited her quickly, and she was on her knees before she truly realized what had happened. The lights flashed on, and she blinked four times in the darkness as her eyes adjusted. She felt the man behind her, and she twisted to see her captor.

He dipped down to secure her legs as well, and the immobility caused her to stumble and fall into the hospital bed. It shifted in an inhuman way, and in the light, she saw that her victim wasn’t John, but a dummy. She sought out her captor, and she found him, in his pristine suit, and not a ginger hair out of place.

“Mycroft,” she spat.

“I wasn’t sure you would recognize me,” he replied.

“The umbrella you stashed in the corner gives it away.”

“Yes, it has become a sort of unofficial symbol.” Mycroft replied airily, as though this weren’t a pivotal moment in her life.

“So, I’m guessing your offer no longer stands.” She snarled, furious at being caught.

“Not as such, no. Now the only offer is life in prison, with annual visitation rights to your daughter.”

“Do I even get a trial?”

“For you, dear Andrea, no.” Mycroft smiled coldly.

“What’s my alternative?”

“Execution. Government sanctioned, of course.”

“You promise about Matilda?”

“You really should get your daughter’s name correct. I guarantee you’ll see Antimony regularly. Although I believe they call her Annie.”

“He didn’t even keep her name,” Mary stated in shock, finally feeling the defeat.

“I believe he did decide he’d name the child at my parents’ house. You simply chose not to believe him.”

“You fucking wankers.” Mary growled.

“Let’s be civil, Andrea. You must have known, when you decided to freelance, this was how your story would end.

-o—o—o-

“Who are you? Where’s John? Where’s Maddie?”

“Ms. Morstan, you are officially divorced from John Watson, and your parental rights have been eliminated.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed and her lips curled, teeth exposed, “You read the drive.” The edge of her voice cut through the quiet atmosphere of the recovery room.

“Of course I read the drive. Your ex-husband did not, but allowed me the pleasure. I must commend you; I hadn’t bothered to even investigate you until my brother was shot. You did very well for yourself.”

“I had the means,” she snapped, “Why wouldn’t I take advantage, once Moriarty was dead?”

“Understandable. But your mistake lied in not truly giving up the life. Attempting to murder my brother, your failure to disclose your past to Dr. Watson. “Mycroft held his umbrella tightly in the chair next to her hospital bed.

Mary was still recovering from the intensive surgery she’d just undergone, but she was clever. “It was all a ruse. He lied to me for months.” She laughed hollowly, “And here I thought he was a horrible liar. I suppose he was trained by his _boyfriend_.” She spat the last word, clearly a source of bitterness in their marriage.

Mycroft’s cool demeanor failed to falter, “If you are referring to my brother, I can assure your ex-husband remained entirely faithful during the course of your marriage.”

“During being the operative word, I’m sure,” she snarled.

Mycroft ignored the insinuation. “Dr. Watson is honorable enough. I wished for you to be incarcerated immediately, and he insisted that you be allowed a 48 hour stay. Though I insisted on these.” With lightning fast reflexes, he lashed her wrist to the hospital’s bed with a leather strap. She strained briefly, but the pain from her abdominal scar prevented her struggle.

She glared daggers at him as he smoothly circled the bed and strapped her other arm to the bed, “I’ve explained that you are a high risk prisoner to the hospital staff and I’ve assigned you one of my own agents to accompany as you take your doctor-ordered post operative walks.”

“I want my daughter.”

“That, dear Andrea, will happen, should you accept my offer.”

“And what exactly will my soul cost?”

“You will work for me. You will do the assignments I provide. You will see you daughter monthly during supervised visits.”

“And should I refuse?”

“Life in prison.”

“So, the same thing, then. You are daft if you think I’ll take either.”

“Regardless, it is what you will receive. And you will be thankful for it.”

“Mycroft. I won’t be your prisoner. I will escape. I’ll incapacitate your man, and I’ll do it with stitches holding me together. Nothing will come between me and my daughter. You can’t stop me. You won’t.” The fire in Mary’s eyes was only enhanced by the venom in her voice.

Mycroft stared her down with equal vehemence, and replied coolly, “Then I suppose we will handle that eventually once it occurs.” With a finalizing tap of his umbrella, Mycroft stood, and exited the room.

Mary’s eyes followed him out of the room. Her training allowed her to compartmentalize the fury that churned her stomach. And she began to strategize.

She was going to get her daughter back.

She was going to murder John Watson.


End file.
